sound of pure joy. “Thank you for listening. I feel—I don’t know—I feel so light. Like I just put down a huge weight I hadn’t even realized I was lugging around.”
Adam nodded. “It’s got to feel good—to get that off your shoulders. Secrets like that can be very heavy loads to bear. Thank you for trusting me. I think you’re amazing, Shani. I bet the Shani in the folktale was the most heroic of them all.”
Shani laughed again, her face radiant. “Don’t let my sisters hear you say that.” She sat up straighter and closed her window. “Now, we better get going. Mama makes the best frybread in the state, and it’s been way too long since I tasted it.”
Chapter 9
Adam stood back as five women rushed out of the small house set on a tiny plot of land. They raced down the set of stairs that led from the wraparound porch. The women were tall and graceful like Shani, but, unlike Shani, they all had long hair, thick and shining in the noon sun.
The oldest, who must be Shani’s mom, had her hair plaited in a long braid down her back. It was, he saw as he moved a little closer, threaded with silver, though her face remained smooth and unlined. All of the girls were pretty, but none as lovely as Shani, though he recognized he was probably biased.
Shani flew into her mother’s arms and they both began to laugh, cry and talk at once. Nina Youngblood stroked her daughter’s closely cropped hair, a flash of pain moving over her face, though she continued to smile. The four sisters crowded around, and eventually Shani hugged and kissed each one in turn before finally turning back to Adam.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still laughing, tears on her cheeks. “It’s been so long—too long—since I was home.”
She looked back to her family, who were all focused on Adam now. “This is Adam Hawk. Adam, meet my mom, Nina Youngblood, and these are my sisters—Kaiah, Malia, Yareli and Chenoa.”
He moved toward them, greeting and shaking the girls’ hands as they clustered around him. Nina stood a little apart, watching him with a bird-like, inquisitive gaze, as if sizing him up.
He approached her last and took her hand lightly in his. Her palm was rough and calloused, her grip firm. “Welcome, Adam Hawk,” she said in a deep, calm voice. The hint of a smile lifted her lips, but he sensed her reserve.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Youngblood,” he said.
She shook her head. “Call me Nina. Thank you for bringing Shani home to us. Please come inside and share a meal.”
The house was tiny but filled with sunlight. The wood-paneled walls were adorned with woven wall hangings and there were bright throw rugs on the linoleum floor. A hallway led off the main room, presumably leading to the bedrooms. There was a swinging door at the back of the space that, judging from the delicious aromas of fresh bread and roasting vegetables emanating from it, was surely the kitchen.
The living room contained a sitting area with two mismatched, much-loved old couches and a rocking chair. A tall vase filled with huge yellow sunflowers sat on the coffee table in front of the couch. In pride of place on the wall hung a studio portrait of a very young couple in Native American garb, possibly still in their teens. The pair were looking straight at the camera with shy, nervous smiles, their posture ramrod stiff. The girl was clearly Shani’s mother. She looked startingly like Shani, save for the eyes, which were rounder and a little closer together. The guy, Shani’s father, was very tall, his skin swarthy, his nose curved like a hawk’s beak, his almond shaped eyes exactly like Shani’s.
There were framed photos of the girls at various stages of their lives cluttering the end tables and shelves, along with lopsided ceramic mugs and children’s drawings, no doubt made by the girls when they were little. The whole place had a warm, lived-in feel, bursting with love and family.
How different from his parent’s large, pristine home, with its immaculate white rugs, entire rooms forbidden to little boys with sticky fingers, and the silence at their dinners in the formal dining room. While he’d never felt unloved precisely, he had felt like an inconvenience. One more thing to be scheduled into his parents’ busy calendars, always coming after professional obligations and their busy social life. He’d used to wonder, once he’d